The language that we so proudly speak today is soaked in blood, bears the weight of a war, has a history of influence from Europeans, Mughals, Arabs, Persians, and East Asians thus adapting many words from their language.

Nothing beats the feeling you get from a fresh home-cooked meal after time away from your home. Large cuts of rui fish (grass carp) swimming in a broth of red chilli and chunks of cauliflower garnished with fresh coriander, each morsel bursting with flavours of the clean cuts of fish, leave me looking for more.

The Dhaka International Trade Affair is a symbolic feature of the Dhaka winters. Come January and DITF opens its doors to all the Dhakaiites to add just another dose of entertainment to the already party laden winters. This year, the usual serenade of the DITF started ten days late owing to the political turmoil that had tainted a better part of the last year.

An old folklore spins the story of three young ladies who were questioned by their beloved father to express how much they love him by use of particular objects of choice.

Did the night sky always charm you? Have you always dreamt of losing yourself in the world of Hercules and Scorpius?

What language unites us all? What has waged so many wars, inspired so many men to brave harsh seas and desolate deserts?

The clang of pans, smoke rising, smells emanating from the dark pot brewing a rich, dense stew, the sound of crisp vegetables being cut and stir fried these are the smells, sounds and sights that come from a kitchen that is in action. Being a Bangladeshi, it is no surprise that we are all food connoisseurs at heart-- going to the markets in the mornings, braving the water clogged streets and haggling our lungs sore, all for the sake of bagging the freshest and best ingredients to cook a perfect meal.

Julia Child, a prominent 1920's chef once said “The only time to eat diet food is while you're waiting for the steak to cook.

Many a youth has toiled away hours learning to play the guitar, mastering the drums, making notes flow from the flute or even go as far as taking up an eclectic mix of household objects in pursuit of playing percussion. Music for many people is a means of life -- a canvas for expressing their aspirations.

Gone are the days when extended families were the default arrangement. As the city expands, grows and vibrates with activity we see a rise in the number of people moving out of their parents' home into single units.

Far from the Bay, along the foothills of the Chittagong Hill Tracts, a few trees still stand tall and have witnessed hundreds of winters, summers and monsoons. Still they propel water with love to the village surrounded by their green turf, they provide shade while we chop them down into pieces; the trees offer us fruits to eat or give blossoms that add colour and fragrance to our horizons. While searching for peace from the uncompassionate, unsafe, unyielding, unfair and urban means of city life, I wandered through the thin vegetation and empty hilltops.

Here in the Waterland, people are yet to learn the trick of hiding their true faces behind well-polished material masks. They are not crowned with higher education nor do they wear foreign fragrances to veil the magnitude or odour of the little or the immoral sins they commit. When I looked at those fishermen who returned from fishing in 'no-fishing areas', I could clearly see the guilt and the fear reflecting in their eyes and expressions.